


Said the Spider to the Fly

by zombified_queer



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Coming Out, Drinking, Gen, Irony, Reminiscing, Romantic troubles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 09:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14041440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: He dragg'd her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,Within his little parlour; but she ne'er came down again.-Mary Howitt's "The Spider and the Fly"





	Said the Spider to the Fly

“Nal.”  
“Elim.”  
She’s helped herself to his liquor cabinet, the good selection hidden behind a false panel, and she takes her time picking between sweet springwines and fine vintages of kanar. Garak studies Dejar the way one might study a particularly lethal snake or a new curio on a close friend’s shelf.  
Her hair’s been let down, modestly braided. He catches her reflection and she’s without her chufa painted. Her face has always been sharp, always reminding Garak of knives or shards of glass, but now the light on her reflection makes her look sharper.  
“You always were particularly terrible at breaking and entering,” Garak notes, settling into his armchair, content to watch Dejar. “What brings you here?”  
“Am I not allowed to check up on old friends?” She doesn’t face him. “And if I remember, Elim, you never had the stomach for the particularly cruel interrogations.”  
“We’ve never been friends. Rivals and coworkers.” Garak points out. “And I took those jobs with pride and a hypo beforehand for the nausea.”  
Dejar turns to look at him and Garak notices she looks upset, almost as if she’s been crying. “You’re still the same brat you always were.”  
“You were the bigger brat,” Garak points out. “Always vying for Tain’s affection.”  
“And Pythas outdid us both,” she notes.  
Garak nods. He heard the news and he had to be just the slightest bit proud of his old friend. “He was the best choice. Capable, wise—”  
“And he had a rather handsome wife,” Dejar says.  
Garak raises a brow ridge. He’d had his suspicions about Dejar, always watching the way she stared just a bit too long at women, as if committing their faces to memory. She seems to catch on to the way Garak catches on and she looks back at the hidden selection of liquor.  
“Behind the springwine, there’s a good vintage of kanar. Twenty-second century.”  
“Something for a celebration, you mean.”  
“It’s not every night I have someone break into my quarters to pay me a visit without wanting to break my nose or slit my throat.”  
Dejar finds the bottle, bringing it to Garak. He opens it, but offers here the first drink.  
“What’s been on your mind, Nal?” he asks, watching her take the bottle, drinking straight from it.  
Dejar hums as the kanar works its way through her. “Gilora, mostly.”  
“The scientist?”  
Dejar nods, takes another drink of kanar.  
“Is she the one infatuated with - ?”  
“Don’t say it,” Dejar hisses. “And yes. She is.”  
Garak looks her over, studying her face. “I think Gilora might look quite good at your side.”  
Dejar huffs. “She’s not the type.”  
“Then her companion, maybe? Ulani’s just as attractive, so I’ve heard, and perhaps would look better next to you.”  
Dejar offers the bottle to Garak, who take a small sip before handing it back. It’s juvenile, the kind of drinking someone fresh from Emergence would do with a close friend.  
“Ulani’s . . . Softer,’ Dejar agrees after a long moment.  
“Perhaps more open to experimentation,” Garak suggests.  
Dejar gets a look of not being there, zoning out. “No. Gilora would be the experimenter, if either of them are . . . well you know.”  
“I do,” Garak nods. “And I know you’ve never been one to be so shy.”  
Dejar sinks her teeth into her lip. “Perhaps, but this is different, Elim.”  
“How so?”  
“If I screw this up, it could be more than just a broken heart.”  
“Ah,” Garak says, understanding. “Which one?”  
“That awful O’Brien,” Dejar says.  
“I’m certain Gilora can be persuaded,” he says softly. “Start small. You know the Federation is more liberal about chocolate consumption in its territories.”  
“I’m not going to do that.” Dejar takes another swig of kanar.  
“Then what are you doing to do? Profess your undying love at this hour? It’s rather late, you know.”  
“I suppose . . . poetry?”  
“That’s not a bad start. There’s also a wonderful selection of eateries on the Promenade. And you, of all people, should know how much a woman appreciates a good meal in good company.”  
“And you wouldn’t know the first thing about it.” She smiles at him, offering the bottle to Garak again.  
“I’ve got to be in bed,” he says, standing. “Take the bottle. You need it more than I do. And Odo’s security never checks the habitat ring this hour.”  
“Thank you, Elim.”  
“It’s nothing, Nal.” He raises a brow ridge. “I expect to be designing wedding gowns before too long.”  
“I’m sure you have plenty of time to think on the designs,” Dejar says. “Goodnight, Elim.”  
“Goodnight, Nal.”  
He watches her go, a lightness in Dejar’s steps. Only once she’s gone does Garak draft a message to Odo, holding off on sending it just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Nal Dejar is a lesbian and you can't tell me otherwise.


End file.
